Trip in the Head
by Amethystia
Summary: We all reflect on ourselves sometimes. It's Draco's time to do so. Draco's POV. PG-13 for angsty themes and language.


A/N: POV of Draco. Somehow, If he were to actually grow a conscience, this would be it maybe.  
Disclaimer: The lovely Ms. Rowling owns these characters; I just use them for my habitual amusement.  
Summary: We all reflect on ourselves sometimes. It's the person you least expect to's time to do so...surprises insue (really more interesting than you think).  
PG-13 for the angsty themes and language  
  
  
~Trip in the Head~  
by: Amethystia  
  
  
I looked into the murky mirror seeing a ghost of a reflection. I didn't like to look in the mirror often because I hated to see the truth. Today, though, I somehow felt compelled. And this time, I didn't even recognize the pale monster with the sparkleless, steel eyes and the almost white-blond hair staring back at me. 'And this is what people see me as?' I asked myself. 'No use in dwelling on what you can't change,' another one of thoughts replied. I guess that was true--I'd really gone too far these days to take my actions back. I'd taunted so many people, hurt numerous more...hell, I couldn't repent if such a spell were placed on me to do so.  
  
My thoughts were soon diverted, however, from voices outside the bathroom door. 'Great, just when I'm having self-pity, some flaming git's going to interrupt me.' The door swung open, and it was the person I expected to see the least...*Mr. I'm-So-Valiant*, Harry Potter himself. I could've thrown up right then and there; he was and is everything I'm not and never will be. That thought made me hate him more.  
  
"Ah, if it isn't Potty...," but I stopped right there. I didn't have the strength to do it today. Why did I ever do it anyway? Because I'm a Malfoy. What was one good reason that I had for doing this to him or anyone for that matter? Other than the fact of my family and what it means, I couldn't find any reasons, of course. That only made me hate *myself*.  
  
"That's it? No taunts about my parents or dementors? No cracks about my hair?" Harry retorted. He looked suspiciously at me, and I would've, too, if I were him.  
  
I made some indistinctive sound as a reply. I guess this wasn't enough for Mr. Wonderful because he insisted on badgering me. "As much as I *hate* to ask this, what's wrong with *you*?" he asked, while raising an eyebrow. I could see why so many others liked him; look at him, being inquisitive about me when I'm such a spiteful rival. And for a minute, I actually almost answered him.  
  
"What makes you think that something's wrong with *me*?" I growled back maybe a little too quickly. It didn't ease the situation any.  
  
"You're just not up to your usual standard of arrogance, so I just assumed," he said with a fiery gleam in his emerald eyes.  
  
I deserved that remark of course, but that was it; I couldn't take it anymore. In a blaze of blurred hands and rage, I smashed the mirror with both of my fists. It took awhile for me to realise what I did, but I noticed an appalled expression on Potter's face; this made me smirk. As sadistic as it is, I *liked* that expression on him. To see that he could be shocked made him seem human for once.  
  
After standing there in the silence, he spoke. "Your...er...hands are bleeding. Maybe you ought to go to the hospital wing...," but I cut him off.  
  
  
"What is it with you, Potter?!" I spat furiously, "Always so noble, doing this and that...," but I had to stop there to let tears of frustration run down my face. I knew this wasn't about him, and I could tell that *he* knew that, too. This was about me, my fuck-ups, my family. It was like he could read my mind, see right through the shell I put up for so many years and all the orders I took from my father. I hated that look of empathy he gave me even more than I detested him.  
  
"Don't look at me that way, you prat," I snarled as he looked me over. "Shouldn't you be running along with Weasle and Mudblood Granger?" At this point, I wanted him to leave, even if I had to be my usual self to do so. But he didn't move, not even his eyes budged.  
  
"Malfoy," he began, "I--I don't like seeing anyone like this, not even *you*." He then kneeled down beside me and placed a wary hand on my shoulder. No one ever tried to comfort me before. Not at home, not even here (surely Crabbe and Goyle weren't advanced enough to understand comforting). But someone I taunted and hurt in so many ways was taking his time to attempt it. It just made me cry more silent tears. Somehow, I started blurting out what was troubling me, and Potter didn't flinch or comment. He just sat there, with that same damn look.  
  
By the time I realised what I'd said, who I'd said it to, and what all happened, I knew I couldn't take it back. It was all too much for me, these seething emotions, that damn boy and his niceness, and my still-bleeding hands; I soon drifted off into a soft, dark, and unconscious state.  
  
I awoke in what was obviously the hospital wing. 'Damn you, Potter. You and your righteousness.' Madam Pomprey must have seen me wake up because she came bustling with food and some sort of potion. But under the tray, there was a letter. 'What the hell? This is just getting ridiculous!' But I opened it in spite of myself.  
  
The parchment was littered only in the center with tiny scrawling. I didn't recognize the handwriting, but once I read it, I knew just who it was from. DAMN HIM! "You know, Malfoy. You're not so bad...for you that is."  
  
If the famous Harry Potter could say this, this must at least be half-true. I somehow felt relieved, all because of *him*. But if he expected things to be different, no. I knew that tomorrow I'd be up and about, sneering at everyone; things would be back to normal.  
  
A/N: Yea, it sucked. It was more-or-less for my entertainment anyhow. =P 


End file.
